Already Gone
by singingcagedbird
Summary: There are three things I know for sure: perfect doesn't last forever, expectations ruin everything, and fairytales don't exist. Submission to Pixiella's story contest.


Song: "Already Gone," Kelly Clarkson

Characters:

Stacy Keibler, Randy Orton

* * *

><p>Boy joins football team. Girl joins cheerleading team. Boy becomes star quarterback. Girl becomes head cheerleader. Boy falls for girl; girl falls for boy; it's fate. Couple win homecoming king and queen, Most Adorable Couple superlative, go to college together. Boy becomes Big Man on Campus. Girl becomes poster child for college. Boy proposes on New Years' Eve under the fireworks. Girl cries and accepts. Boy and girl get married in a picture-perfect June wedding.<p>

With a story like that, boy and girl should live happily ever after—high-powered executive and stay-at-home mom, 2.5 kids, one dog (maybe a cat), retirement at 65 and a move to Florida.

The key word here is "should."

_Remember all the things we wanted  
>Now all our memories, they're haunted<br>We were always meant to say goodbye_

That was my story—at least, what my story looked like, from the outside. John Cena and Stacy Keibler, the quarterback and the star cheerleader. We were what high school sweethearts were supposed to be, the kind of couple that everybody knew would last forever.

Maybe that's why we didn't work, and maybe that's why we fought so hard to work.

_Even with our fists held high  
>It never would have worked out right, yeah<br>We were never meant for do or die  
>I didn't want us to burn out<br>I didn't come here to hurt you now I can't stop_

We were perfect, at first. We really were. John was such a gentleman, funny and sweet. He treated me like I was something delicate, something precious. He was my first everything—first kiss, first love, first lover. I wasn't his, but he said he loved me because I made him love life. And for two years, that was enough for us.

After two years, though, we were together because we were supposed to be—because everybody expected us to be, from our friends to our parents to the teachers at school. It wasn't as though we didn't still care about each other, I just didn't feel that spark anymore and I knew he didn't ether. But when John proposed in our senior year, I thought that caring maybe—might be—possibly—could be enough by now. It wasn't enough, and both of us knew it. We started fighting over little things, pointless things, because we couldn't say what we really needed to, what we really wanted to. Which brings me to where I am now: standing inside the front door, car keys in hand, looking down at the letter I'd written one last time.

_I want you to know  
>That it doesn't matter<br>Where we take this road  
>But someone's gotta go<br>And I want you to know  
>You couldn't have loved me better<em>

_But I want you to move on  
>So I'm already gone<em>

I felt like a coward, leaving in the middle of the night like this, but I knew that if I took one look at John I'd stay. I might not have been in love with him anymore, but I still loved him—still cared about him. Then again, that was why I was leaving. He deserves to be happy, and he'll never have that chance if I stay with him.

We were perfect together—for a while. And then we weren't anymore, and nobody knew it.

_Looking at you makes it harder  
>But I know that you'll find another<br>That doesn't always make you wanna cry  
>It started with the perfect kiss then<br>We could feel the poison set in  
>"Perfect" couldn't keep this love alive<br>You know that I love you so  
>I love you enough to let you go<br>_

A letter is a coward's way out. I guess that makes me a coward, then. But I could never say everything I need to without a letter, so I stayed up all night writing one. It took hours, and I had to throw out three tear-stained copies before I finally had a letter that would do.

Dear John,

By the time you read this, I'll be long gone. Before I say anything else, I have to say that I'm sorry for leaving this way—in the middle of the night, and writing you a letter as a farewell. But if I wait until tomorrow, I know I'll stay, and neither of us would be happy. We were perfect long ago, John, but perfect can't last forever. You deserve someone who loves you like crazy and can't bear the thought of letting you go. God, John, this is so hard to write. I do love you, I really do, but you deserve something so much more than the shadow of the love we used to have. I've already signed all the paperwork. It just needs your signature, and you're a free man. Please don't hate me too much, John. I don't expect you to forgive me anytime soon, but I hope someday you realize I really am doing this is because I love you. I hope you find a beautiful girl who loves you beyond all reason. I hope you have incredible kids who grow up to make their father proud. I hope for you every possible blessing and grace, and I hope it from the bottom of my heart. But you deserve happiness, and I can't give you that.

Love (love, love, love, always),

Stacy

_You can't make it feel right  
>When you know that it's wrong<br>I'm already gone, already gone  
>There's no moving on<br>So I'm already gone  
><em>

I'm ready to leave. I've been ready to leave. And yet here I sit, on the couch we bought together—the first thing we bought for this house, one that was way out of our price range and that we could never afford, but we got it anyway because we were giddy with the idea that we could make it work. We had so many plans back then—plans to travel the world, or have a houseful of kids and pets, or move to a beach somewhere and escape from everyone else. But the ones we really needed to escape from were each other.

_Remember all the things we wanted_  
><em>Now all our memories, they're haunted<em>  
><em>We were always meant to say goodbye<em>

It takes two hours of crying on the couch before I can finally move. I walk back to the bedroom as quietly as I can—we're both good at it, tip-toeing around so that we don't start another fight. Not that we need to, not at night, when we can pretend we're sleeping. John looks so peaceful when he's sleeping. He reminds me of the boy I fell in love with, the boy who fell in love with me. But I'm not the fairy-tale girl anymore, and he's not the fairy-tale boy. He rolls over sleepily—he must have heard me, and forgotten we're in another pretending-to-ignore-each-other stage.

"Go back to sleep, baby," I whisper, leaning over to kiss his cheek. At the last second, he turns his head and presses his lips to mine, the motion more out of habit than out of affection. But I can feel my heart breaking, and bite my lip hard to keep from crying. I look down at the ring on my finger one last time, sliding it off slowly and placing it on my pillow.

He'll see it in the morning, and he'll suspect. Then he'll get up, worried, and then he'll read the letter, and he'll know. He'll hate me for a while—I know it. But someday, maybe, he'll stop hating me long enough to see the pretty brunette at his coffee shop—the perky redhead at his gym—the sassy blond receptionist at his office. He'll fall in love again, and it'll be better this time, because it won't be to meet anyone's expectations.

As for me? Maybe I'll fall in love again, someday. Maybe I'll spend my life as a lonely spinster. Maybe I'll adopt way too many cats and become the crazy cat lady at the end of the block, or maybe I'll go into international journalism like I always wanted, or maybe I'll get a boring job at an office and write a book in my spare time. But right now, there are no maybes. There are no maybes as my feet walk out of the bedroom, there no maybes as I take the keys in my hand, there are no maybes as I open the front door one last time.

_I want you to know_

_That it doesn't matter_

_Where we take this road_

_Someone's got to go  
><em>

_And I want you to know_

_You couldn't have loved me better_

_But I want you to move on_

_So I'm already gone_

And one last time I turned away, knowing I wouldn't be turning back ever again.


End file.
